


Say It If It's Worth Saving Me (Sam/Dean, R)

by chemm80



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-13
Updated: 2009-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's never been good at watching Sam in pain.  On the other hand, this is not something he can fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say It If It's Worth Saving Me (Sam/Dean, R)

****

The Bloody Mary Remix

  


_Now_

Dean jerks awake—again—the tortured groans from the other bed jolting him from his uneasy dreams and seeding his shoulders with growing tension. He can hardly remember what it was like to wake up any other way, and apparently beating Bloody Mary at her own game hasn’t improved his brother’s shitty sleep habits at all.

_Look, you’re my brother… and I’d die for you. But there are some things I need to keep to myself._

“And how’s that workin’ for you, Sammy?” Dean mutters softly, as he swings his feet over the edge of the bed to the floor. Dean’s skin tightens when the chilly air of the room hits his bare arms, but he can see droplets of sweat beaded on Sam’s forehead, the soaked strands of his too-long bangs plastered to his skin.

Dean watches Sam twitch and moan for a minute or two, needing to piss but too tired to drag his ass to the bathroom. This is a performance that’s been running nightly for way too long, and Dean’s body feels bruised and brittle with exhaustion. He can only imagine how bad it is for Sam, and he spends a fair amount of time doing just that. His brother’s pain has never been something he could ignore.

Dean checks his phone: 3:16 am. Way too early to get up; too fucking hard to go back to sleep, and nothing to do in between but think. That definitely won’t end well.

And maybe it is the dark hour that has Dean seeing Jessica in his mind right now, remembering how his first reaction to her had been a weird mixture of alarm and relief—relief that Sam had a relationship, and in fact seemed to be living happily with this gorgeous, seemingly normal girl. It had struck Dean when he’d watched Sam drape his arm protectively across her shoulders, how worried he’d really been that their lives had screwed Sam up beyond repair—that Dean had.

That thought had been followed quickly by another: _What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Sam?_ And Dean’s instincts had been right on the money on that one—loving Sam had been Jessica’s fatal mistake.

About that…well, Dean’s never been more sorry to be right in his life, but regardless of whether Dean had anything to do with it, “normal” is over for his brother. There’s no possible direction but forward, but that doesn’t mean the trip is easy, for either of them. As far as Dean’s concerned, “time heals all wounds” is mostly bullshit, but you’d think the bloody open sore would start to scab over at least, stop getting worse at some point. God knows Dean’s tried everything he can think of to help Sam get through this—irritating him to distraction, wearing him out with work, even getting him drunk. The whole situation pisses Dean off.

Dean sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. He gets up and makes a weary trek to the bathroom, stopping at the side of Sam’s bed on the way back. He sits down on the edge, careful not to wake him. He figures that until Sam’s agitation gets worse—and it will, if experience is anything to go by—Sam might possibly be getting some rest out of the deal.

Of course Dean never hovers like this when Sam is conscious and he’ll disavow it completely come daylight, but they’ve got to get through the night first. These last hours before dawn are always the worst, like the demons that torment Sam are trying to get in a few last licks before the light of day chases them away.

The scent of his brother rises off his overheated body and Dean breathes in the familiar smells of sweat and cotton and old books, and a musky, male scent identifiable only to him as _Sam_. In spite of the restless nights, it’s times like this when it hits Dean what a source of overwhelming comfort it is, having Sam back where he can see him every day, touch him if he really needs to know he’s okay. His throat suddenly aches, making him swallow hard against the full feeling, like he’s trying not to vomit. _Damn it._ Sam’s the only person in the world who gets to him like this, has him worrying and overthinking everything until he just wants to hit something.

Sam groans then, his hands clutching at the sheets, and Dean recognizes it as a sign that the nightmare is escalating. He lays one hand on Sam’s belly and rubs gentle circles there, while mentally filing the action under “things that shall never be mentioned.” It’s just that sometimes the motion quiets his brother, for whatever reason. It works this time too, for a couple of minutes, but then Sam’s stomach muscles start to tighten and ripple under his hand.

Dean barely has time to think, “This is gonna be bad,” before Sam gives a harsh grunt and flexes his body suddenly, sitting straight up in bed, flailing his arms and making panicked little sounds.

“Hey, hey, hey…easy Sammy…you’re all right, I’ve gotcha…” Dean says, soothingly at first, then raising the volume when it doesn’t help.

He grabs for Sam’s wrists, dodging the bony knuckles and elbows as best he can when he misses. He finally manages to pin both arms, but Sam keeps twisting and groaning, kicking at him, and Dean’s not going to be able to hold him for long. And Sam might actually be fighting him _because_ of the restraint, but Dean’s afraid to let go. It could get nasty enough for him to hurt himself. Dean finally throws himself bodily across his brother, using his weight to hold him down.

Sam tenses one last time and then starts to relax. Dean eases off Sam cautiously, pulling back so he can see if Sam is fully awake and back in control. They’re both sweating and breathing hard when Sam opens his eyes long enough to focus on Dean’s face, inches from his own, then squeezes them shut again. Dean starts to move away, give him some space so they can both start pretending none of this ever happened, but Sam rolls suddenly toward him, throws his arm around Dean’s waist and pulls him back, burrowing his face into Dean’s chest.

Dean lets out a grunt at the impact and stiffens, but Sam’s grip is desperate, muscles corded and hand fisted in the back of Dean’s shirt. Dean stops trying to pull away, just curls his free arm around his brother’s trembling body instead.

Because, _Jesus_ …is Sam crying?

Dean freezes, not sure what he’s supposed to do with that if it’s true, until the growing wet spot on Dean’s t-shirt answers the question in the affirmative. He thinks of about a half dozen possible responses and discards them all as too flippant.

It depresses Dean. Clearly their lives have reached an all-time low if Dean can’t even joke about the ugly shit anymore.

And Dean would have laughed his ass off—or kicked somebody else’s ass—if anyone had told him a couple of months ago that Sam crying in his arms would be a good thing, but Dean’s not blind. Jessica’s death is obviously eating Sam up inside and maybe this is the release he needs. Dean hopes that’s true, because Sam is in the course of a meltdown the like of which Dean hasn’t seen since the kid was six, complete with hiccups and snot bubbles. But it’s okay. Some things are more important than a ruined t-shirt.

Or it’s okay until Dean notices that Sam’s dick is pressing hot and hard against his thigh, and he has to reassess the situation.

Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know what kind of dream would cause Sam to resurface both fighting for his life and with a raging hard-on, but he figures if anybody has a reason to be wired wrong, it’s Sam.

That’s mostly Dean’s fault, too.

**

_Then_

Sam’s just turned fourteen and the crappy little house always feels like a powder keg to Dean—hot and tense, waiting to explode. Or it might be Sam that’s about to blow, actually, judging from the way he mopes around all day and moans and groans all night. Their father calls it growing pains. And it’s no wonder it hurts, Dean figures, considering the rate at which the kid grows, limbs stretching into long freaky shapes that Dean couldn’t have imagined when the little brat was six.

And it’s not like Dean doesn’t get why Sam’s…on edge. He remembers being fourteen: eaten up with hormones, making everything into a huge drama so that each day was either the worst or the best one of his life. And physically it was even crazier, like there was some kind of magnetic field surrounding his dick, making it tingle and harden over anything and nothing, causing his hand to take up permanent residence in his pants.

Dean’s never been good at watching Sam in pain, but on the other hand, this is so not something he can fix.

Dad is absolutely no help—insists on throwing Sam at Dean at every opportunity, in fact—hunting solo for much longer periods of time than before. Somehow or other Dean turning eighteen seemed to be a kind of milestone for Dad, like being old enough to vote and go to war makes Dean suddenly more trustworthy to be left on his own. Dean would prefer a little less trust and a little more hunting himself.

The bitch of it is that even when Dad takes him on a short hunt Dean can’t stop worrying about Sam left behind all alone, so he’s completely fucked either way.

Because when they’re together Sam is _always_ looking at him, staring with his big tragic, anime eyes, needing something that Dean can’t possibly give him. When it gets really bad Dean finds himself outside, just trying to get away, anywhere. He shoots, he runs, he trains until he’s exhausted, until the weird…whatever it is…fades into a dull buzz in the background that he can tolerate, if not ignore. He’s got it handled.

Or he does until he breaks.

Dean walks into the house one day, sweaty and tired from training and wanting nothing more than a cold drink and a nap. He stops in the doorway when he spots Sam standing at the window, face pressed against the glass. Dean’s first thought is that it’s some acute spasm of teenaged angst and he snorts softly.

Sam whirls guiltily at the sound and Dean freezes. He can’t even wrap his brain around what he’s seeing. Sam’s face is tearstained and his hand is in his pants—no surprise there, really—but it’s pretty clear that Sam’s been watching Dean _while his hand is in his pants_ , and that is…unexpected. Especially when Sam jerks his hand out of his jeans and it’s obviously wet with his come.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks. And yeah, it’s the lamest question ever, but Dean’s more than a little freaked out. This isn’t exactly a situation his father’s training has prepared him to address.

“Dean, I…”

“No, I don’t want to hear it. Just go. Get cleaned up.”

Sam ignores him, pigheaded as ever, and steps closer instead, stares at Dean with wet eyes.

“Don’t you love me, Dean?”

_“What?”_ Dean looks at Sam, wants to tell him he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he can’t quite force the lie out of his mouth. He tries simple denial instead.

“That’s not what this is, Sam.”

“Yes. It is,” Sam states flatly. “I want…”

“What? What do you want, Sam?”

It’s possibly the stupidest thing Dean’s ever said. Because Sam’s always so damned stubborn, knows exactly what he wants and how to make Dean give it to him, even if there’s no way he can want this. Except Dean’s already seen the evidence that he does.

Sam steps forward, crowding Dean, and he lets Sam back him up against the wall. It’s a pussy move, but Dean’s so far out of his element here that he might as well have turned into a girl. He’s never been good at saying no to Sam.

“Say it back, Dean. I want you to…”

Sam stops there and just looks at him, breathing his air and giving it back to him, until Dean can feel the walls between them breaking down, crumbling under that stare. Sam puts his hand up near Dean’s face and Dean wonders what he means to do with it—pull him closer, or hit him, maybe—but Sam just lets it hover there for a second, then looks over at it like he’s never seen it before.

There’s something lost and wounded in his expression, and the realization hits Dean like a punch to the gut, exactly what’s at stake here.

They’ve reached some kind of portentous event horizon. Dean is standing face to face with his little brother—his _responsibility_ —while he wonders what would fuck Sam up less: giving Sam what he wants, which is completely beyond messed up, or pushing him away, making him feel dirty and wrong for wanting it, until the desire sours into something corrosive and twisted. It’s maybe not a total no-brainer, but it’s pretty damned close.

He grabs Sam’s wrist with one hand and undoes his own pants with one quick, angry motion of the other. He holds Sam’s hand tight enough to bruise and presses his open fingers against Dean’s dick.

The first contact of skin to skin is like closing an electrical circuit, something rough and primitive sparking to life between them, burning Dean from the inside out. This might be the biggest mistake of his life, but he can’t stop. He won’t.

“Is this what you want?” Dean grates, throat tight and raw, like he doesn’t want it too, like he isn’t hungry for everything and anything his brother is willing to give him.

Sam doesn’t answer, just leans in and tries to kiss him, but Dean can’t. He turns his head away and Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck instead. Dean was half hard before Sam’s hand ever touched him and that scares him more than all the rest of it combined. He can’t let himself make this into more than what it is for his brother, just stupid teenage emo supercharged with hormones. Sam will get over wanting it in time and Dean won’t be able to…

Sam flexes his fingers then, tries to curl them around Dean’s cock, but Dean presses them down harder, moving faster, until his mind finally goes blank.

**

_Now_

Dean reaches behind him and wipes Sam’s come off his fingers onto the bedding. Sam is quiet now, relaxed and warm against him and mostly asleep again, but Dean’s doesn’t move away. He’s not interested in disturbing the brief ceasefire they’ve managed to negotiate inside his brother’s tortured mind.

He’s even less interested in examining the means behind it, but he can’t seem to keep his tired brain from picking at it. Sam was just a kid the first time it happened, yeah—but Dean wonders now how he could ever have been stupid enough to think it was just a phase. Sam always was smarter than him, especially about this kind of thing.

Dean sighs heavily. He should just let it go. They are what they are, and he quit worrying about the right or wrong of it years ago. He wouldn’t undo it even if he could, and he’s most likely going to Hell anyway. Besides, after what they’ve been through in the last few months…God and all his angels could descend on them right here and now and Dean wouldn’t flinch.

Bring ‘em on, he thinks. They’ve got some shit to answer for.

Dean pulls his head back a little and peers down at Sam. He looks like he could be fourteen again in spite of the dark shadows circling his eyes, with his mouth slightly open, hair standing up in all directions, one hand fisted under his chin.

Dean takes Sam’s other hand from where it’s curled loosely against Dean’s cheek and presses a kiss into Sam’s palm. He pulls him back close and lies there holding his brother, keeping watch for the first rays of the morning sun to filter through the crack in the heavy, stained drapes.

It’ll all look different in the morning.


End file.
